


Soft

by TheSigyn



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29570271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSigyn/pseuds/TheSigyn
Summary: “I’m used to you being hard. At least with me.”Missing scene from Sleeper.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Soft

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place just as Buffy agrees to help Spike after the First's attack in the basement of the empty house in Sleeper. Betaed by EllieRose101 and bewildered. Banner by EllieRose101

The aftertaste of slayer’s blood still lingered in the back of Spike’s mouth. 

He had tasted Buffy’s blood before, always in the heat or aftermath of lovemaking, kissing away the scrapes and abrasions picked up as they battled each other, always with the power of their bodies pushing through all the logic of their minds. So why, he wondered, had whatever soul-induced crazy mind-fuck was playing with him been so foolish as to have him feed from her? 

_Because it should have worked,_ he realized. If he hadn’t been in love with Buffy, if the power of her blood didn’t instantly return him to the headiness of her bed, it would have flooded through him in a rush of bloodlust, and he would have ripped her apart. Except all it did was bring him back to himself, shunt all the confusion and the torn memories and the twisted notes of a song half remembered out of his head, and now here he was, remembering Buffy, Buffy hard, Buffy powerful, Buffy breaking his body as she took him over and over, and him loath to stop her.

It didn’t make sense. If it was his own mind, wouldn’t it have known what Buffy’s blood would do to him?

 _“You’ve done it now,”_ the other Spike said when he’d come back to himself. _“Now she’ll kill you. Kill her first.”_

But whatever power it had over him was gone, and all he could do was cower under the weight of the death in the corner of the basement. God, did Spike want to die.

And now, _now_ she threw away the weapon, refused to stake his heart. Why wasn’t she being hard now? If she couldn’t, wouldn’t kill him, couldn’t let him die, how was he supposed to face this horror? 

“There’s something playing with us,” Buffy said. “All of us.” 

Something? Something other than his madness? “What is it?” 

_“Ugh!”_ the other Spike growled low in his throat. _“You’re in trouble now. It’ll just be that much worse when I do get you.”_

Spike tried to shut it out. “Why is it doing this to me?” As if he didn’t have enough on his plate, now there was a supernatural something-or-wazzit mucking with his head? 

“I don’t know,” she said. 

He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t fight this thing, and he couldn’t die, and he couldn’t face it, and he couldn’t stomach the guilt. What else was there? 

Well. There was Buffy. 

“Help me,” he begged. “Can you help me?”

He expected nothing. She’d already done everything she could. All there was now was to let him die. But she wouldn’t let him die…. 

He supposed there was always the sun. 

Then she surprised him. “I’ll help you.”

 _“She’s lying,”_ said the dark Spike by the stairs. _“She won’t help you, she’ll only break you. Like she broke you before.”_

“Shut up,” Spike muttered. He wouldn’t listen anymore. 

“Come on,” Buffy said. “We have to get out of here.”

 _“It’s a mistake. She lies to you, Spike. She will never be anything but your enemy. You will never be anything but a monster._ ”

“I’m not listening to you!” Spike shouted at it. 

“Spike, stand up.” 

He cringed as that tune started up again, and his head buzzed, buzzed so he could barely hear the song. Maybe that was a good thing? 

“Spike!”

She was going to hit him any second, shake him, break him. He groaned, trying to block out her and _it_ whatever it was, and then her voice pierced through the buzz, not the sharp bark he was used to, but something soft. Something he usually only heard when she was talking to her sister, her friends. “William, come with me.”

That. That was a voice he would follow anywhere. Finally he moved from his crouch on the floor, trying to pick up a body that didn’t fit, with a soul that was sluggish and weighted down with blood. He staggered, and Buffy reached out to catch him as he fell. He leaned against her, panting breaths his body didn’t need, gasping as if his soul was trapped in its coffin of vampiric flesh, striving for clean air. And what he breathed in was her scent, along with her heat and her movement, and he realized she was holding him. 

Buffy was actually holding him. 

They both realized it at the same time, and stepped back from each other. Spike wasn’t sure what he wanted, either. He wanted, desperately wanted to hold her, but he was scared of her, too. Maybe she felt the same? No, he couldn’t even dream that she still wanted him. He knew that now. Before the soul, he’d thought she would forgive him after he got it. After the soul, he knew he was unforgivable.

“Is it still here?” Buffy asked. 

Spike glanced over. The image of himself was glaring with contempt.

“Yes. But he’s… quiet.” He looked back at Buffy. “You really can’t see…?”

“I feel… something,” Buffy said. “Something dark.” She shook her head. “Let’s go. Up the stairs.”

He had to move past _it_ to make it to the stairs, but it didn’t -- or couldn’t -- stop him. He got to the stairs with Buffy behind him, staggering as if he were drunk, the weight of his soul, the taste of the blood, Buffy’s scent, all of them tearing him in different directions. He stumbled on the stairs and fell, sliding down a couple of steps. Finally, embarrassingly, he realized he would have to crawl. He made it up a couple more steps on his knees.

“Are you hurt?” Buffy asked, climbing up beside him. 

Her voice sounded so gentle. It wasn’t what he was used to. “Are you?” he whispered. The scent of her blood, even just that little scratch, was like a blade across his senses. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” The words twisted in his throat, and the tears would not fucking stop. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.” 

She let him cry for a moment. “Spike, you need to get up.” 

The tears and the guilt and the… _everything_ fazed him, and he only cringed. 

“Don’t make me carry you, too.”

That was like a glass of cold water in the face. She was always carrying everyone, her friends and her sister and the fate of the world. Spike had tried to be the one thing to lift the weight off her. Put it all on me. Hit me, fuck me, break me, put it on me and let me lift Atlas’s burden off your shoulders. 

He couldn’t be more weight. 

He staggered to his feet. “‘M sorry,” he said softly. “I try never to let you see this.”

“See what?” She looked confused.

“Me… being weak.”

She made a small sound, almost a laugh, almost annoyance. “Why not?”

“You always like me hard, pet.”

She rolled her eyes at his answer. “Now’s really not the time for--”

“No.” She thought he’d meant sex? “No! I didn’t mean….” He cringed, and she didn’t respond. “It was just that every time I was soft, you’d pull away.” 

There was a heavy silence. “Now is… not the time to go over this.” 

“I know it.”

They moved through the empty house into the street outside, Spike still sniffling. Buffy never took her eyes off him. “Is it still here?” she finally asked. 

Spike looked around.”Not now,” he said. “Not that I can see, anyway.” 

She nodded. “We have to assume we’re alone, then. When… when did the voice start?” 

“Dunno.” Spike sighed. “In the basement, at the school, I think. But it was different voices, different people. It changed. I thought it was just me. I thought… it was all just me, and the soul. Do you think… it wasn’t?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.” Her voice was quiet, but decisive. “Something is after all of us, Willow, Dawn. If it’s haunting us, it must be haunting you, too.” 

“So I’m not insane?” 

“I…” She looked down. “I can’t answer that.”

He closed his eyes. “No, you can’t.” 

They walked blocks in silence, her familiar presence comforting beside him. If it wasn’t for the weight in his chest, it could have been just like old times, heading out together to patrol. But tears kept rising and falling, rising and falling, and he couldn’t seem to stop the bloody things. 

“No, you’re not insane,” she said suddenly. “If you were really insane, getting you out of that basement -- both basements -- wouldn’t make it better. And you are better. You’ve been better.” 

Spike laughed helplessly. “No, obviously not, if it’s made me….” Kill. It made him kill. It made him kill innocent people. It made him kill innocent people and turn them into demons. Kill innocent people, turn them to demons, and bury them under a basement waiting to murder the love of his life. The tears broke in his throat, and then he was sobbing. “Oh, god, what did it make me do?”

He was frozen in pain. His feet stopped walking and his shoulders shook with horror. And then… there she was. Her hand, warm on his shoulder, on his upper arm, almost but not quite an embrace as she held him steady. Was that all it was, stopping him from falling again? Even if it was… it felt good. Powerful. Strong enough to cut through this stupid sobbing, anyway. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m _sorry._ The word is so empty, but I’m sorry, I…” He wiped his eyes. “Oh, forget it. Just stop it, you idiot,” he said to himself. He looked up, his breath shaky. “Sorry,” he said again, then cringed. “And sorry, ach, for this.” 

“It’s okay.”

“It’s… _not_.” 

“Let’s just get you home.”

Her tone was warmer than he was used to, and the word caught him up. 

“Home?” 

She took in a deep breath. “Home,” she said. “I can’t leave this to Xander. You’re coming with me.” 

“Am I still invited?’

She half blushed. “You know you are.”

“You sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Her tone was so soft. So soft. 

“I’m just…” He looked down. “I’m used to you being hard, too,” he said. “At least with me.” 

“I know.” She didn’t elaborate. “Come on, let’s go.” 

They walked together. It was a hell of a walk. When he staggered, fazed by waves of refreshed horror, she took his arm. When he screamed, or cried with memories, she waited for him to finish. When he apologized, she would only say _It’s okay._ Somehow, with waves of disgust and terror washing through him like an ocean of horror, they made it back to Buffy’s home. 

He was still invited. She didn’t have to say anything as they walked in the door. 

She led him into the living room and sat him down in a chair. Horrorstruck, grief-ridden, exhausted and frightened, he sat there staring through her, trying to remember, trying _not_ to remember. 

“I’m gonna get the others,” she said. He nodded silently. She hovered, looking torn, and then she moved behind him. She lifted up the soft afghan that lay on the edge of the side table and wrapped it securely around him. “Is that okay?”

It cuddled over him and he clutched it, his hands gripping the fluffy yarn. It smelled of Dawn and Buffy, and it felt like a barrier against the cold he couldn’t feel. “It’s soft,” he said.

She pulled away from him with an almost casual gesture, touching his shoulder, her thumb slightly brushing his cheek. He sat in shock as Willow and Xander, Dawn and Anya came into the living room, and Buffy explained the horrors of the night. He heard every word they spoke, but didn’t engage with them. As Buffy told them about this dark thing that had been close to him, how she had to get close to Spike to find out about it, deflecting her decision to take him home with her as only part of the mission to find out about the big bad that even Spike could feel looming over them, he realized she was leaving out something that he found crucial, even though it would mean nothing to the others. 

He clutched the soft blanket to him and held onto the simple truth. Tonight, for maybe the first time ever, Buffy was soft with him. 


End file.
